Punching in a Dream
by letmesign172
Summary: What if you became so rapt by a single fantasy that it suddenly became your reality? Based off the song Punching in a Dream by the Naked and Famous.
1. Preface

_Preface—Punching in a Dream_

This was what I had feared.

This was precisely what Edward had said would happen.

But he had been wrong in one particular respect, at least….

It was not I who had fallen prey to the temptations of this life, or its advances; it was not I who had taken the chance, or the fall, or the offering; it was not I who had fallen in love _incorrectly_.

But it would be I who was to die tonight, if I decided to stay.

"Olivia," Jacob whispered beside me. "Don't move."

We could hear the slow, deafening footsteps coming up the dark stairwell, the shadow of the monster cast across the wall. The bare skin of my stomach was warmed by Jacob's consoling touch. He knew what was going to happen to him as well as I did. It was not me he was trying to comfort, but himself.

We both knew either I would die. Or he would.

There was no possibility that the two of us would be able to choose to die together or live on together. There was no alternative.

"Goodbye," He said quietly into my ear. And, then, he was up out of my grasp in a flash, disappearing into the black hallway, not even the light of the moon reaching us underneath the tree's cover.

I heard a loud rip and a pained whimper and exasperated howl before I clenched my eyes shut and cowered into the pillow… I opened my eyes, sitting up in my sunshiny bedroom, noticing that my mascara had stained the pillowcase, and I looked out my open door into the wrong hallway as if I had expected Jacob to still be dying there….


	2. Chapter 1

"An aspiring young girl, my Olivia is," My dad brought his glass to his mouth, took a drink, and set it back down on the golden tablecloth. "She's been accepted to some of the finest colleges in the country."

I took a deep breath, staring at my string peas blankly.

It was a calmer, classier night in the Bellamy family home tonight, but that was only because we had a guest, I was sure.

Thomas Montgomery, Jr., was my dad's boss, and he was the kind of guy with golden wristwatches that look like shackles on pudgy wrists, with cologne that is so overpowering it has the capability of knocking out anyone within a five foot radius. The kind of guy that is easily hated in business and social excursions alike. And, I noticed, when a boss has no one else who will willingly adore them, they have to resort to taking advantage of helpless employees.

My dad, Fred, isn't particularly helpless—he's high enough on the corporate ladder to make heads turn—but he'll do whatever it takes to make his family's lifestyle as extravagant as possible. Emerging from modest beginnings, my father was young blood compared to the commercial big shots, and he was a hell of a businessman. And, in my opinion, his ethics were in the right place, but his decisions were garbage. He'd always told me that he never had any secrets, but his karma was so terrible, I knew he had to be lying. Being the man to beat in all of the northern east coast was a thrill for him, sure, but he wouldn't be the one laughing when the stocks fell and his housewife couldn't find work.

My mom, Beth, was the avidly social type, who animatedly conversed with the other mothers at school and kept up a spotless reputation by polishing her image. I knew she didn't marry my dad for selfish reasons, but, when we moved east, she left her old life behind almost too eagerly and traded it for BMWs and thirty acre real estate. Considering her and I had ended up on two different ends of the spectrum, we weren't especially close. I'm sure my parents were shocked more than any one else when the DNA of the esteemed Fred Bellamy and gregarious Beth Landon landed them with a quiet, hormonal loner of a girl.

Beth told me once that she was shocked that I could survive with only a couple friends. _The only way to get far in life is to associate yourself with everyone and everything. Otherwise, you'll become a drifter, and no one likes drifters. They're beggars and they smell funny. _Little did she know, I had considered—on more than one occasion—running away from home and backpacking across the country. The life of a drifter was far more exciting than whatever I was labeled as now…. A civilian, perhaps.

Fred continued on to Mr. Montgomery. "She's studying abroad in her second semester. It sounds exciting, doesn't it?"

"Very," Mr. Montgomery couldn't care less. He carved his knife through the steak and, before popping it in his mouth, waved it on his fork in the direction of Beth. "Your sirloin in wonderful, Mrs. Bellamy."

"Why thank you," She beamed. "It took me hours." If I recalled correctly, she had called the caterers.

My older bother, Eli, looked up at me from across the table, rolling his eyes.

"Where do you go to school, son?" Mr. Montgomery asked him.

He leaned back in his chair, picking up his drink as if it were a beer bottle. He raised the glass towards Mr. Montgomery and smirked, "I'm currently studying the art of the faithless."

"Atheism?" Mr. Montgomery's eyebrows furrowed.

"No," Eli took a drink, winking at me. "Politics."

Eli was twenty-one and already a restless soul. He had dug so many holes for himself in his first few years of adulthood that his easiest solution was to simply give up and live in a cave. He was, more or less, an alcoholic and a cynic, which made a major in affairs of state and a minor in economics the perfect occupational direction for him. He had moved to New York at the age of eighteen for college, but no more than half a dozen weeks into it, he met an exotic dancer and fell madly in love with her. He'd quietly dropped out of school—quietly, because he was dirt broke and Fred was making bank; it was nice to get a fat check from the old man every month—and eloped. As far as I know, I was the only person who knew of all this as it was happening and I've been sworn to secrecy ever since.

"You'll have to be graduating soon, my boy," Mr. Montgomery nodded, chewing loudly.

"I've convinced my parents of an uneventful graduation," He shrugged. "It's all superfluous anyhow. Besides, I'm sure they'd rather go the whole nine yards with their darling baby girl, am I right?"

"Oh, Eli, don't even say that!" Beth laughed, bringing her hand to her chest. "Olivia still has three months of high school left. Don't tease me with her _college_ graduation. God, just look at her. She's a grown woman now."

"Life's in your face, my dear," Fred grinned. "And I don't think anyone is better suited to take on the world than you are."

I swallowed, looking away from him. "Yeah."

"Olivia," Mr. Montgomery's brow furrowed as he smiled toothily. "What is that bracelet on your arm? What an interesting crest. Is it the Bellamy coat of arms?"

I looked down at the metallic wristlet and then back up again.

"It's the _Cullen_ coat of arms," Beth exhaled with a giggle. "Have you ever heard of the _Twilight _films? Olivia's positively infatuated by them."

"Mom," I hissed silently. No one heard.

"No, I haven't," Mr. Montgomery rested his fat elbows on the tabletop and brought his hand to his chin. Clearly he'd forgotten that putting your elbows on the table was disrespectful. "I haven't any children."

"Romantic fiction," Fred sighed. "A vampire falling in love with a human."

"Hmm," Mr. Montgomery looked down at his meal. "How impractical."

I bit my lip. Surely, at the age of seventeen, I was still allowed to enjoy things that transcended practicality.

"When I was a boy, my father wouldn't let me read anything fictional," Mr. Montgomery announced proudly. "He wanted to prepare me for the real world. And I completely agree with him. There's no use filling your head with invented characters and imaginary situations. You can't learn cent from them."

I grimaced.

"Speaking of which," Mr. Montgomery looked to the other end of the table. "Fred, I recently purchased a spectacular book on tape …"

I stood, setting my napkin down beside my plate and heading for the hallway.

"Olivia, where are you going?" Beth asked.

When I looked back at them, Eli was the only one looking at me, and his expression was that of utmost understanding.

"The bathroom," I answered, leaving the room without another word.

Mr. Montgomery cleared his throat. "Yes, well, about the book on tape …"

My evening dress swayed around my knees as I walked and my shoes clicked as I made my way down the hall. I shouldn't have been offended by the conversation, but, at the same time, I was completely infuriated. It wasn't the vampires or the romance that I was infatuated with—it was the idea of a world beyond my own. I half wished that I could leave what I had now and be somewhere where all that fantasy actually existed.

_Twilight _had plenty of educational value. Should I find myself caught in a love triangle between two attractive monsters, I'd know what to do …

Once in the bathroom, I shut the door and stared into the mirror, fixing my hair so that my bangs were on the right side and the part was straight. I regretted not straightening it this morning—it had frizzed to the point that it resembled a lion's mane.

I dreaded going back to the conversation at the table. It would be another hour and a half, at least, of talking about futures and expectations…. I felt suddenly sick to my stomach.

"Hey," Eli's voice made me jump. He pushed the door open and leaned against the doorframe. "You okay?"

"I could've been peeing," I spat. "Don't you know how to knock?"

He smiled. "I'll take that as a 'no.'"

"I'm sorry," I shook my head. "This is all just so stupid."

"You think I don't know that?" He looked up at the ceiling contemplatively. "There's a reason I try to keep a state's distance from this place."

I took a deep breath. At least he had the opportunity to escape.

"In a couple months, you'll be up and out of the nest," He reminded me. "You won't miss it, I'm tellin' ya, but there's nothing you can do about it right this second. Go back in there, quietly munch on your steamed carrots, and play the role of content daughter. All these years with those two has probably made you a magnificent actress."

I grinded my teeth and turned off the light.

"Hey, one more thing," He stopped me. "If you're fuming, could you try to make a scene in there for me? I warned my subscribers that I was dining in hell tonight and, if you'd be ever so kind, I'd like to upload an entertaining narrative to my Tumblr tonight."

"I could get dad fired," I began to walk back to the dining room. "… Would you rather I dumped hot meat into Montgomery's lap or threw a tantrum?"

"The tantrum sounds compelling enough," He grinned, lowering his voice as we entered the room. "But you better make it good."

"All refreshed, Olivia?" Fred eyed me carefully. I knew I would be scolded for my attitude before the night was done. And, by the look on Beth's face, I knew that she would be the one to see to it.

"Uh-huh," I lowered myself into my chair, glimpsing at Mr. Montgomery.

"So, tell me, darling," Mr. Montgomery weaved his chubby fingers together. "What is so fascinating about this _Twilight _of yours? What's the premise?"

"That love prevails over damnation," I said tersely.

"Aha," Mr. Montgomery's eyebrows rose.

I evaded Eli's bright eyes. "And, when it comes to love, if it's not rough, it isn't fun."

"I'll drink to that!" My brother laughed.

There was a short silence.

"Aha," Mr. Montgomery said again, only with a more condemning tone this time. "Well, personally, I don't think that's something a young woman should be reading, then."

"Well, personally, I don't think it's any of your business what I read," I sighed.

Beth dove in to save the sinking ship. "It's not quite as risqué as you're thinking, Mr. Montgomery. In fact, _Twilight_'s primary audience is teenagers. It's very PG-13."

"Hmm," Mr. Montgomery grunted. "At least now I know where Miss Bellamy's priorities lie. It's good to know this generation's young people are so engrossed in educational reading."

"Your sarcasm is unnecessary," Eli responded gruffly.

"You know, Mr. Montgomery," I folded my arms across my chest. "If I were you, I would be disappointed that my father wouldn't let me read fiction. Because without fiction, you haven't got an imagination. And, without an imagination, you haven't got any worthwhile expectations and you'll be living under a glass ceiling your entire life."

"Is that so, Ms. Bellamy?" He retorted. "I'll have you know that I am the CEO of a _Fortune 500 _company, the largest grossing technological production corporation _in the world_. I'm not much of a fan when it comes to limits, as you may notice."

"But you're a sixty-year-old bachelor," I replied coolly. "And you're going to go home to that big mansion of yours with nothing more to do than crunch numbers …"

"Olivia," My father said sternly.

"I bet it's lonely up there," I continued. "And to not even be able to dream beyond your awful life must be a nightmare. I'm living a nightmare, too, you know, and I might have been able to relate. But the difference between you and I is that I can escape and you cannot. You're a loser and a scammer, and I pity you."

"Enough!" Fred shouted, standing. "Olivia, go upstairs."

I stood hesitantly. "For a timeout?" I muttered.

"_Olivia_," He clenched his fists. "Get your head out of clouds and stop being so dramatic."

"I'm not a child, dad," I scowled.

"Alright," He loosened his curled fingers. "Then stop acting like one, dammit."

"That means stop arguing with superiors and stop reading _fairytales_," Mr. Montgomery said smugly. It really wasn't his place to admonish me, but he was in control of Fred's paycheck, so there was nothing anyone could say.

I stood once more and quietly left the room.

My bedroom was dark when I walked slowly into it, and I didn't bother to turn on the lights—or even change out of my dress, for that matter. I fell onto my bed, longing to fall asleep as quickly as possible, because, I figured, the only one to escape this world was to dream myself into another one.


	3. Chapter 2

The forest was dense, surrounding me in a sea of nothing but green—green moss, green leaves, green earth, green _everything_. Believe it or not, I did not feel the slightest bit of claustrophobia in this box; instead, I felt quite the opposite. I had never felt safer, more secure, more sure of anything. Every thought I'd ever compiled seemed that much clearer when I was on this verdant little planet.

Perhaps it was the seclusion, the certainty that came with solitude. Perhaps it was the ambiguity—I wasn't quite sure where I was. Forests weren't this green in Rhode Island, I was sure. I had to be somewhere rainy, somewhere wet and cold, somewhere where the trees could not only stand tall, but _breathe. _I envied the trees. I wish I was a sturdy as them, I wish I was as infallible.

But, I knew that was impossible.

I would cherish this much of my dreamland for as long as it lasted, because I knew it would vanish by sunrise. I stepped forward, my bare feet squishing the moist earth underneath my soles. And my breathing heightened. This actually _excited_ me—this uncertain, atypical freedom. Yes, being among trees made me feel freer than I ever would be able to feel outside this fantasy. And, no, I was not some sort of insane bohemian. I was far, _far_ away from anything that I knew, anything familiar to me, and that was the most revitalizing feeling that I had ever felt.

My eyes floated about, spinning as the tall trunks loomed hundreds of feet above me into the clouds. I descended slowly back to earth, my heart pounding freely as I smiled and brought my gaze back to the roots. I turned again, wanting to walk higher up the mount to where I could see sunlight showering my face, but something stopped me.

I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being watched, and never before had the feeling been real enough for me to actually turn around to scope the area. I didn't expect to find anything as I did a 360-degree turn, and I didn't see anything, till I reached the last inch …

And, in that moment, two surprised ocher eyes met mine.

I gasped, recognizing the face itself, yet seeing it for the first time.

I had read of him many times, memorizing his description in order to create my own projection of his being. In my mind, he had been tall, slim yet lean, softly featured and accented with the lightest hint of conviviality to him. But, now, there was that and much more. His jaw was angular, sharply pulling the skin along his cheekbones and shadowing so it seemed that his face was made from stone. He was the palest shade of white I had ever seen—paler than a ghost, paler than snow, paler than anything fit to describe such a pallid complexion. He was tall, about two heads taller than me, and uncertainty bled through his wary eyes.

Every facial motion, every immobile stare, and every sharp blink—it sent a heat wave rushing through me, spiking my senses so that I was crazily swooning. He moved forward, but then reconsidered and stepped back.

"It's alright, Edward," I comforted him, automatically reaching out for him.

_Oh, _how I longed to touch him. How I longed to get closer. Never had a fantasy, a creation of my own mind's eye, been so tantalizing, so tangible, so _real_. What was it about him? I couldn't place it. Even after four years of loving his image, had I just now come to the realization of what true beauty meant? Had I just now figured out that he was so much more than perfect—standing here in his presence was _sublime._

"How do you know my name?" He wondered, his voice like a thousand angels singing in perfect harmony. How could I _imagine _that? Where did I find the divine inspiration for such a god? How could I possibly derive this out of thin air—let alone, in my _sleep_?

"Oh," I gasped, a sound that was nearly orgasmic.

I flinched in embarrassment.

He smirked, figuring then that I must've been a figment of his imagination, as well.

"This is a dream," I clarified.

His eyebrows furrowed, but then he nodded halfheartedly, "Yes, yes, it is. You are from Forks, no?"

"No," I answered honestly, feeling a bit faint.

"Oh, then where have you seen me before?" He wondered.

"I've … I-I am …" I began losing circulation to my brain.

Although I figured it'd be dangerous for my health, I rushed forward, jumping up onto him and placing my lips onto his. It was a gut reaction, something that I had only done out of sheer sake—doing it to do it, I supposed.

_What a real feeling dream_, I admired. His lips felt real, like he was actually here. His arms around me felt strong, as if I was actually touching them. But they didn't feel like human hands, they felt like a statue's frozen grasp. His mouth rigidly pulling away, that felt pretty real. His gasps, they sounded real; his swears, they sounded like a real voice, like he was truly there and not just a mirage.

"What are you doing!" He shouted. His arms stiffened and he pulled his mouth away, instinctively pressing his lips to my throat; begrudgingly, he lifted his lips and shoved me off, incidentally pushing me three yards back.

I'd forgotten. "Oh, the blood. I'm sorry. That musta been uncomfortable for you."

His eyes grew even wider. "What did you just say?"

"Must've been uncomfortable …"

"_No_," He annunciated. "About the blood."

"Well, you're a vampire, aren't you?" I looked up at confusedly.

He swallowed hard, his eyes widening. "Who are you?"

"I'm Olivia," I smiled warmly. "Olivia Bellamy. You look awfully upset…"

"You live in Forks?" He murmured.

"No, I live in Rhode Island," I said. "Are we in Forks now? This is such a real dream." I ran my hand across the ground. "It's almost exactly how Stephenie Meyer described it."

He grew unbelievably stiff at the name. "You know her?"

"Not personally," I shrugged. "I've read the books a million times, though."

"What books?" He raised an eyebrow.

"The _Twilight_ books," I answered. "Oh, well, it's all fictional so, of course, you being the main character … you wouldn't know anything about it …"

"I know everything about it," He murmured.

This was the point at which I became furiously confused, to the point that I became almost frustrated. It was not the fact that something was hidden from me—no, it wasn't that. I was used to that. But it was the fact that he stood there with the blankest stare and the gloomiest face, absolutely immobile. It were as if he was a computer and the only way I could get a reaction out of him was if I initiated it; he was in silent, impenetrable shock.

"What do you mean?" I initiated.

Before could respond, something to the east attracted his full attention and he grew a sudden urgency. He was at my side in a flash, lifting me up off the forest floor and pulling me away in the opposite direction of whatever had distracted him.

"We have to get back to my house."

The next few moments happened so quickly that I wasn't quite able to process them, so describing them now is seemingly impossible. He yanked my arm up, so that I moved toward him—and perhaps over him. And then my eyes began to sting painfully, which caused an annoying headache. I blinked in discomfort, slouching away from him and falling onto my feet on a hard, stone surface.

When I regained clarity of my settings, he was already about ten feet away from me, holding the glass door open for me as he lingered uneasily in the doorway. He seemed flustered, his eyes plastered to the woods beyond. His attention was hardly on me, which gave me enough time to observe my new setting.

Almost with the illusion of having grown out the forest floor, the three-story glass house before me seemed a dream in itself, a dream within my dream. The levels of the home were separated by modern angles and lines, the three floors resembling rectangular blocks that had been haphazardly aligned on top of one another. Where there was siding, horizontally grained brown and black wood matched the dark trees around it; where there wasn't siding, there were floor-to-ceiling windowed walls, so wide and expansive around the house that I could see through the rooms to the other side.

The foyer in which Edward waited was covered in exotic, tribal artifacts and ancient European paintings. A staircase hugged the white walls, a transparent railing seeming to be the only thing keeping it together. But the steps were thick, lightly colored oak, four feet long each, I guessed…

It was quite odd. I had never been a dream so realistic that I could assume the _dimensions_ of things. Sure, I could calculate the height of a cliff I'd fallen off of in a dream if I _wanted_ to, but it was not a subconscious thing for a normal person to do. Never was there enough detail perceived in the moment where time and space and inches and feet applied. Odd.

My host was obliging to my awe, letting me get my fill of the place without prompting me even once to come in. Though I could tell he was a bit anxious. When I finally did slowly make my way to the door—still examining the new world around me—he took a moment to quickly appraise me before leading me up the stairs, to a landing, up another set of stair and to the main living area.

There was only one solid wall in the main area, the rest windows, as if the room were a peninsula surrounded by the green, luscious sea. Lots of pale colors were on the walls and in the furniture, as I had expected. Many of the pieces arranged around the room were ornate and antique, some perhaps even older than three hundred years my senior. I looked over my shoulder where the hall led in the opposite direction and I could just see the edge of the kitchen.

_It's right where it should be_, I thought to myself. _It's all exactly where she described it_.

Edward moved over to the sofa and gently lowered himself down onto it, so slowly that it was as if he was afraid of offending someone in his own house. He looked up to me, gesturing toward the pale blue armchair across from him with his eyes.

I was hesitant to move forward. Mainly because … observing the scene was one thing, but disrupting it was entirely another. I felt so intrusive breaking into such a supernatural place, almost afraid my ordinariness would ruin the magic of it all.

"Don't be afraid." He shook his head, misinterpreting my reluctance.

To convince him that I wasn't the least bit frightened of him, I took my seat facing him, almost a little too quickly, and leaned back comfortably. Though probably impolite of me to lounge so casually as a guest in a home to which I had never been before, he took to the action with a certain relief. It was comforting for him to know that I was already to terms with the whole situation—even though I didn't quite know what the situation was just yet.

"I must apologize for my haste," He continued to examine my face with furrowed brows, almost as if he were frustrated with me. Yet, despite this, his voice conveyed the greatest conviviality. "My family is out hunting"—he paused to gauge my reaction to this—"and, well, quite honestly, I don't want them to know about you."

"Won't they be able to smell me when they get back?" I assumed.

"They left only a moment ago and should not be back until late. I'm hoping to get you home sooner rather than later…. It's been quite some time since we hunted last, so I'm sure they'll be heading upward toward the Canadian border, where the wiliest of bears and mountain lions are." Again, he stopped to measure my reaction. When the only comprehensible emotions I made were that of bewilderment and admiration, he discarded his assumptions of my fear and waited for my questions to ensue.

But I had to sort through everything naturally. If I jumped to my grander-scale questions straight out of the shoot, I would forget the smaller details in the shadow of the obvious things I was obviously missing. I had to present my thoughts to him as they came and as they flowed, instead of digging through my head for technicalities.

After deciding this, I looked back up at his face, but—this being the most counterproductive first action I could have taken—my thoughts were suddenly a befuddled mess, which he probably understood. So, I had to look away from him in order to remember my objective. My eyes floated around the room: to the grand piano in the corner, to the tall built-in bookshelves, to blankets tossed perfectly across furniture, to the flower arrangements and rusted metallic sculptures perfectly displayed on the end tables, to the modern white canvas with long black line dragged across it… There was so much to look at, so much beauty and intricacy that my mind could not perceive in a single sitting.

"This is dream is so real," I commented.

"This is not a dream," He replied concisely.

He said the words in a fashion that made it seem as if he was my conscience, which made this process much, much easier. He must've overheard my decision to process the thoughts as naturally as possible. So he prompted my thoughts as naturally as he could, as an onlooker rather than an instigator.

"If it's not a dream, then what is it?"

"It's reality."

"That can't be true," I shook my head, scrunching up my nose as if I'd tasted something sour. "You're a character in a book."

"In _your_ reality, I am."

"Then what are you in _this_ reality?" I asked.

He answered, "I'm as real as you are in yours."

"So, all of this actually _exists_?"

He chuckled quietly to himself. "Sorry, I'm just thinking from a different perspective than you are. I've just now come to remember that _I_ am the foreigner to _you_, rather than vice versa."

"I'm a foreigner?"

"From another dimension, yes," He nodded.

"_Dimensions_?" My eyes widened. "Like _The_ _Twilight Zone_?"

"Conveniently named, of course," He smirked again, a sight too beautiful for my human eyes.

"I don't understand…." I hated to admit.

"Perhaps I should introduce the subject to you more slowly," He proposed, seeing that the natural progression of my thoughts all dragged me further into confusion. "This is real." He tapped on the coffee table with his knuckle. "And I am real." He reached out and brushed my sleeved arm, not ready for our skin to make contact, whether I already knew that truth or not. "And you are real.

"There are plenty of alternate worlds that exist, I suppose. Simply fiction to some, simply reality to others. The greatest of novels, the most masterful of masterpieces—you cannot _comprehend_—are all inspired by worlds of which only the artist is aware. Dreams are dreams, yes, but visions are separate. Once connected so deeply with a particular place, you are suddenly there. Because it actually exists.

"Stephenie arrived here the spring of 2002, because she had a vision that this alternate world was real. She was offered, by the choice of God, I suppose, a peek into a reality, one that was not her own—a reality that belonged to my wife. And, when the idea became her own, she began to drift between realities. Though only that single moment of the meadow was visually available to her, she received accounts from every last one of us, we confided her, we became close friends…." He smiled. "A _book_, of all things, was sort of an afterthought.

"We did not think it would be that bad of an idea. And the final product was almost like an account that _deserved_ to be in print. Bella's life, though I had never considered it beforehand, seemed a remarkable tale and, she, a remarkable protagonist. Of course, Stephenie added a bit of hyperbole here and there, but only to patch up sequence … and I must be absolutely honest with you, the joy I felt…. I received access to a part of Bella that I had never known. A part that baffled me and mystified me even more than what I already knew of her—she opened up to Stephenie like she hadn't to any of us. I learned all her suffering, the complexity of her relationships, the facets of her brilliance and compassion…. You haven't a clue how many times I have read those stories. Not a clue. I've examined every last word of them, yet I am still completely unable to fully _know _her…. Well, perhaps, not to _know_, but to … _wrap my head around _her. The thought of finally understanding has enthralled and hypnotized me, to the point of obsession, and I haven't got the faintest idea if Stephenie knows what she's sparked in me … or if she can even imagine…."

He met my eyes apologetically. "How discourteous of me to go on a tangent in front of a guest."

"Monologues are more interesting anyways," I shrugged.

He smiled tiredly. "Yes, well, pointblank, we were rather shocked with the phenomenon that took place only a world away from us. Stephenie returned one afternoon, _elated_ by all that she had to tell us. She described the base that had developed after _Twilight_'s publication. So unbelievable to us was the reaction that Alice prompted her to write another, and another. Which had been Stephanie's original intention, of course, just to round off the story, but never had she dreamed of revealing _New Moon _or _Eclipse_ to the public. And then, in late 2006, when we got the news of a _film_ … oh, it was the joke of the family for weeks, months even. It was just so amusing to us that our lives could be portrayed in such a way. And, when the cast list was done and decided, we all pried so deeply into the lives of our portrayers that it could right well be classified as a felony."

I laughed.

"Ah, yes, but there is hardly a day that goes by that we don't miss Stephenie. Or the change in pace that she brought us."

"She doesn't visit anymore?" I wondered.

"Every once in awhile we'll find a DVD of final edits on the counter or a maternal note for the family lying around somewhere, so, yes, she comes. But she does not stay. Not long enough for us to be aware of her presence. She's here then gone again." His hand moved with his words. "We want to see her, of course. But it's for the better that we go our own ways."

I nodded, his pensive expression alone enough to warn me that the blooming questions in my head were not appropriate as of yet. His relationship with Stephenie was not something I had business in and it obviously disheartened him, so I kept my mouth—to my dismay—shut.

A smile began to reform as he reached over to the coffee table and picked up a purple CD case with a silver, shiny disc inside. He waved it in his hand. "Have you seen the latest yet? Quite comedic, if I say so myself."

"_Breaking Dawn_?"

"Emmett was hysteric during the entirety of the Isle Esme sequence. Oh, and don't even get me started on the birth. Rosalie was utterly embarrassed."

I jolted with a start, having forgotten. "Is Renesmee out hunting, too?"

Edward shook his head toward the window, grinning. "An inside joke between the family and Stephenie."

"Renesmee isn't real?"

"Renesmee"—he said the name funnily with a silly look on his face—"isn't real, no. _Breaking Dawn _is accurate down to the last days of the honeymoon. Some bits and pieces strewn about the rest are true enough, but the context most certainly is not. In the end, all was resolved, but not the way they had according to what you know.

"Alice, Jasper, and Emmett are to blame for the majority of the construction of the final narrative. Emmett was shooting for humor, whereas Alice wanted enough intensity to suit her fancy. And Jasper was left to contain the whirlwind. How Stephenie survived with their counsel is a mystery to me still."

He paused, thinking to himself for a moment, still quite amused. "It's no wonder the book is such an emotional mess."

"I didn't think it was that bad," I mused mainly to myself.

"Because you didn't know the half of it," He said. "To you, it was a piece of serious romantic fiction. I'm sure you were devastated when you discovered Jacob _imprinted_." He contained his laughter.

"I didn't care." I shook my head.

His eyes widened and he sat up. "You weren't disappointed?"

I shrugged, replying indifferently, "I'm Team Edward."

Edward let a fast breath escape before standing and pacing around the room, with eyes clenched shut, for a few long minutes. He turned to me, his cheeks uplifted and his eyes wide.

With his arms folded across his chest, he said incredulously, "No one ever is."

"Well, I am," I perked up in my seat.

"Thank the _Lord_," He lifted his hands. "I deeply appreciate it." And, then all of a sudden, he was sitting back where he had been before, his head in his hands. "You have no idea how much it disappoints me when I find your world thinks that he's so much _better than me_ simply because of who his actor is. Do not understand me incorrectly—Jacob is a good friend of mine now. But if only you could see the _real_ Jacob. Not this polished Lautner child." He lifted his head from his hands, smiling, "I'd like to think I'm _far_ more attractive than he is."

"I'd like to agree," I shrugged.

"… But you don't?"

"I'll let you know when I get to meet the real Jacob," I smiled.

He was to his feet in an instant, his fists suddenly clenched. For a moment I thought that his family had returned, but after a moment, I realized that it was my statement that put him on edge.

"I'm not even certain that you're staying."

"What do you mean?" I stood, too.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, moving swiftly away from the couch and taking long strides down the hallway to the kitchen. "I can't believe I even _intrigued _you. How could I have been so brainless? I told you _everything_. And, now that you're here, there's not a doubt in my mind that you'll be able to come back." He muttered to himself.

I followed him distraughtly down the hall. "But I want to stay…" I began.

"Exactly," He turned on his heel, his hands shooting down to his sides, restive. "You don't even know the workings of everything."

"Then explain to me…"

"I can't. It will only…." He stopped himself.

Not only did he stop. But he looked emotionally incapable of going any further. His eyes fell to the floor, his fingers back to the bridge of his nose again.

"Do you know why it is that Stephenie cannot come back anymore?"

I reluctantly shook my head.

"Because she became _obsessed_," He said slowly, painfully. "As opposed to her usual three days here, she started to spend weeks. Months. This world was beginning to become her reality. You see, time here is different than time where you are. If you stay here for an hour, a week, a year—it does not matter—you will return to reality in the exact moment in which you left. Stephenie would stay here for four months straight and return disoriented, forgetting commitments she'd made, losing track of her mental clock and staying up late hours, sleeping during the day, unintentionally estranging herself from her husband and her sons…. When the day came that she couldn't even remember her own home address, Carlisle asked her to leave for her own wellbeing…. _Twilight _is her only connection that she still has to us."

He took a step closer to me, searching my eyes for a reaction.

I looked forward at him, frozen.

"I cannot have another innocent, little girl become so possessed by something that should not be her reality," He exhaled, his cold breath washing over my face. "Because if you die here … God knows what will happen to your body in _your_ reality."

He turned away from me, briskly walking up the stairwell and stopping at the landing to look down at me.

"To go back to your reality, you just have to consciously concentrate on it," He instructed absentmindedly. "Close your eyes, imagine it, and you'll be back."

"Is that the same way to come back here …?"

"_Olivia_," He growled. "Go home. And do _not_ come back."

He continued up the steps.

"I'm already obsessed, you know!" I called up after him. "Can't you see my life? Don't you understand what it's like for me on the other side? I _hate _it. I can hardly bear it. These fifteen minutes here have been the happiest of my entire life."

"I can't read your thoughts," His voice echoed in the stairwell. "Just like I couldn't read Stephenie's."

I first assumed that he'd been lying. How else could he have so easily answered my inquiries a few moments ago?

But he reappeared on the landing. "I've an outstanding aptitude for reading faces and estimating pauses. Bella is magnificent practice."

"Let me stay," I begged.

"It'll be too much for you to handle," He objected.

"How?" I shrugged. "I already know everything there is to know about your world." His face grew wary, but I could tell he was thawing out; he stepped down a stair. "I'm like you. I've read the books so many times, I could give you a play by play, I could tell you the names of the chapters—in chronological order, too. I know everything about this world that Bella knows: the dangers, the surprises… I know it all. So, I'll let you argue with me. But the excuse that I'm _not_ _prepared_ is not a valid case."

My words fueled the opposite reaction that I had wanted from him. He became suddenly depressed, his eyes falling and his lips puckering as if he wanted more than anything to cry. Without thinking much of it, I jogged up the steps to him, trying my hardest to console him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. What's the matter?"

"You're only so young … and you're _prepared_ for this madness?" He scoffed, his voice broken and unsteady. He grew a paternal edge to him, shaking his head in irritated disagreement. "What has the world come to that it is so _infatuated_ with peril? 'Consequence' is not even a factor anymore. Have you even that word in your dictionary where you're from? It's absurd…!"

"Edward," I interrupted, grabbing him by the hand.

He seemed startled by the contact.

"_Twilight_ is considered the more modest side of all that."

His eyes widened in an adorable confusion. "How!"

His hand slipped from mine and he began to make his way up the steps.

This time he did not protest when I followed him.


	4. Chapter 3

I positioned myself lightly, keeping my spine straight and my breathing careful.

Every move I made felt offensive, feeling like an unwelcome stranger in this place—because I _was_ a stranger. Not by anyone's doing but my own. It was an impolite invasion of the beauty of it all.

Edward seemed unnaturally comfortable, though, reclining on the white couch with a fat book in his slim hands. His nose was mere centimeters from the page, buried deeply in the crease, and his eyes narrowed as he engaged himself in whatever it was he was reading.

My presence was all but overlooked.

"You look different than the book described," I took a deep breath, shifting my weight only slightly; the mattress still creaked underneath me, nonetheless, the springs squealing in the silence. "You seem … even better." I exhaled in embarrassment.

He glanced up from his novel, resting it on his lap and smiling humbly. "I requested of Stephenie that she not overdo it. Not make me sound better than I am in actuality, I mean."

Coming out of anyone else's lips, his words might've sounded narcissistic—but, somehow, perhaps due to inflection or the absolute truth of his words, it sounded like the most altruistic thing I'd ever heard when he said them.

"She didn't do you justice."

He scoffed in disapproval. "May we change the subject, hmm? How about you? You know every little thing there is to know about me—well, all that Bella knows—but I know absolutely nothing about you."

I looked out the window.

"It's not very fair, if you think about it," He smirked. "I shouldn't allow a girl to _kiss_ me if I don't know the first thing about her."

"It was an accident."

"It seemed far from unintentional."

"How was I supposed to know it was _actually_ you?" I countered.

"As opposed to what?" He chuckled. It took me a moment to realize the question was not rhetorical, so my chances to make a witty comeback were wasted. I was silent. Answering his own question, Edward sighed, "The fictitious me?"

I shrugged.

He grinned, "Do you dream about me so often that it's difficult to differentiate?"

I swallowed. "I don't think it's very fair, either. You should give me some shred of credit. I apologized, didn't I?"

Something that sounded like music echoed throughout the room and I even glanced out the door in curiosity as to what it was, before I noticed that it was the sound of his laughter. He leaned back farther, so that his back was pressed up against the glass wall behind him, and laid the book down on the floor, spine bowed to keep his place.

"Oh, you're a very innocent girl, aren't you? You think something as simple as an apology deserves praise?"

"Not praise," I denied. "Just a bit of sympathy."

"Give you sympathy…?" He seemed intrigued by the suggestion. "Adorable."

"I'm not a child."

"I never said you were."

"But you called me adorable."

"And that hints adolescence?"

I folded my arms. "Adorable is what you call puppies and week-old babies."

"And, if you are not an adolescent, what are you?" He wondered honestly.

"A teenager." I sounded almost proud to proclaim it.

The smile gradually vanished from his expression, his breathing growing in volume.

He swallowed, repeating after me slowly, "A _teenager_."

"I turned seventeen in June."

"What day?"

"The thirteenth."

"My birthday's in June, too."  
>"The twentieth."<p>

His eyebrows furrowed. "How did you…? Oh, yes, the book. I didn't know she mentioned my birthday."

"Everything you told Bella, I know," I tapped my temple.

Again, he grew a bit fearful. "…Hmm, filtering my private conversations with my wife never struck me as much of a priority, but now that I see firsthand who the audience is," he looked me over for a short moment, "I will be sure to catch Stephenie before she disappears next visit."

"You don't have to worry," I smiled amiably. "You're only PG-13."

"Ah," He grinned, nodding. "Thankfully, it seems Stephenie has done the filtering for me."

I pursed my lips, having to look away from him to keep my thoughts in check, whether he could overhear them or not. His room was quite bright, though cluttered masculine elements—dark wood tones, warm, neutral colors to match the scenery, modern, boxy furniture. The black iron bed I recognized from _Eclipse_ was the main attraction in the space; the lights that dangled from and coiled around its frame were the only truly feminine evidence of his wife to be seen, with the exception of a few framed pictures of her on the walls. She was quite beautiful, or so I could guess; the snapshots were of a contemporary sort, where her whole face was not in the frame, or her hair was in her face, or her slim figure was partially disguised by the large trunk of a tree. None of the photos had a clear view of her face, which I was most eager to see. To put a face to my narrator. I knew that Edward would not allow me to meet her, no matter how hard I fought; hiding from his family, as he had informed me was essential, sounded near impossible. How he could keep a flagrant human a secret in a house full of vampires seemed of the highest impracticality.

Edward had lifted the book off the floor, continuing to read, though his constant glances at me hinted that it was a bit difficult for him to concentrate.

Following my gaze, he lowered the book into his lap once more.

"She is quite beautiful, isn't she?"

"I'll bet she is," I nodded.

He closed the cover and returned the novel to where it had been before, strewn with many others across his desk. "My bachelor pad has been left relatively untouched. Bella and I live in a cottage, not a mile's distance from here."

"Oh." I remembered this from the story.

He returned to the sofa.

"I'm surprised Alice hasn't jumped the gun and promptly repurposed this room, then," I said, standing to investigate a bit further.

He laughed.

"What is it?" I turned to face him.

"Nothing, nothing," He waved his hand, leaning back against the glass wall again. "I just suppose I have to get used to that. Hearing someone talk about my sister as if they know her personally. You're accurate, to the say the least."

"I might as well know her personally," I shrugged.

"Well, I'm sorry you won't be able to have a real friendship."

I blinked, turning my back on him and saying to the bookshelf, "You know, if I could only meet her, even for a minute…"

"You are in over your head."

I swallowed, walking over to his collection of CDs. "Maybe not. My adaptation skills are above par, if I may say so myself."

"Move around a lot?" He guessed.

"Only once," I shook my head, "and it wasn't long-term. But, you know how it goes. High school, in addition to teaching survival skills and brutally demolishing all traces of stable self-esteem, is good for forcing you into the mold, whatever it happens to be that particular week."

"Not a fan of the system, are we?" He laughed.

"Did you miss the part where I told you I was a teenager?" I glanced over my shoulder at him.

He stood, walking over to stand beside me. "Hmm, what's the mold this week?"

"Well," I looked up at the shelves, scanning the names for anything for familiar, "punk is all the rage right now. Everyone's wearing scarves and listening to indie rock and swimming up the mainstream. I don't get it—I was totally doing that, like, two whole years ago. I was a hipster before it was cool."

He did not attempt to hide his amusement.

"So that means you fit in." He assumed, but, when I made a face, he shook his head, "But you hate it."

"You're right on one account," I sighed. I reached the top row of CDs, smiling when I recognized almost all of them, "Rooney, Beck, Death Cab, Firehorse. I'm impressed."

"Bella converted me."

I moved back to the bed. "Just don't start wearing scarves. Or I'll kill you."

He smirked, "That's more Carlisle's style."

"Hey, I should make you a mixed CD." I offered. "I'll educate you."

He looked away, exhaling in disagreement. "It's not wise of you to want to so eagerly be my friend."

"We've skipped all the technicalities," I crossed my legs. "What's the harm?"

"You haven't the slightest concern for your safety?"

"If it makes you any more comfortable, I could sit on one side of the room and you could sit at the other," I joked. "It's not like being your friend requires getting especially close to you, or kissing you again."

His eyes widened, reluctantly lowering himself down on the bed beside me. "This is cheating on Bella, isn't it?"

"What?"

"I mean, look at us! Sitting in my room, talking about _music_!" He brought his hands to his face.

My eyebrows furrowed.

He quickly stood, going to the window. "Oh, I can't believe myself! May the devil cast me to hell where I belong…! Oh, I could never bring myself to tell her. How could I even stray for a moment. The audacity…!"

"Whoa, dude, calm down. It was an accident. Accidents don't count."

He remained inconsolable.

"And I forced myself on you," I shrugged. "I guarantee, if you, or any of your family, for that matter, step foot in my world, you'd have girls waiting in line."

"I strayed," he muttered.

"You did not."

"I imagined for a moment…. Well, I suppose you're right."

I didn't mean to sound excited. It was reflex. "You imagined what?"

"Well, for a moment … I imagined Bella was human again." He sighed. "The taste, the _smell_…."

"Ugh, you're just paranoid," I rolled my eyes. "C'mon, I inspired a fantasy about your wife! You strayed from undead Bella to what? Human Bella?"

"Oh, but it was still a fantasy inspired by another woman."

"I wouldn't call me a _woman_."

"Even worse!" He pressed his forehead to the cold glass, cursing himself under his breath forlornly.

I bit my lip. "…Am I supposed to find your old-fashioned concern for commitment endearing, err…?"

"You're supposed to be normal."

"Well, then, I'm personally wounded. The mere suggestion…."

"Just scream and run away," he near begged.

"You're having a juvenile meltdown and you expect me to be _afraid_?"

"Olivia, I…" He stepped forward toward me, but reconsidered our proximity and decided to explain himself from a distance. "This must be very strange for you. My actions, I mean. I have to understand that you are just coming into this world, you're ignorant to this life I lead. Reading my history in books and translating my love for Bella as you see fit is not something I've yet become accustomed to. As you can probably imagine, there a few fans of _Twilight_ where we are now. Where you're from, _Twilight _is a conversational subject or common ground or … a poster to hang on the wall." He paused. "Here, _Twilight_ is not a figment of the imagination. It is very much alive—I just hope you understand that."

"I understand." I nodded.

He took a deep breath. "Then you must understand the way I think. I overanalyze, and I apologize for that. But, remember, it is habitual that I look ahead far into the conversation, to foresee consequence. I may not be able to read your thoughts, but, in the moment a human takes to prepare a reply, I've already been searching a step ahead … if that makes any sense to you at all."

"No, it makes sense."

He nodded, feeling comfortable again and moving to sit beside me.

"If you can't read my thoughts," I wondered, "how can you be sure what I'll say next?"

"Intuition." He shrugged. "Olivia, I've accepted my flaws. Not being able to hear Bella's thoughts infuriated and discouraged me, but, by the time Stephenie had arrived and I learned that her mind was blocked from me as well, I had already come to terms with such a disability. You simply serve as all the more practice for me.

"It makes my skill sharper in a way. No longer does my third eye feel like a crutch—more so now than ever, it seems more an advantage in addition to what my eyes are able to perceive."

"Hearing what people are thinking must be so cool."

A trace of smile crossed his face.

"Although, I might be a bit embarrassed," I sighed.

"I'd been embarrassed for you," He laughed. "Some of the things I hear—well, I'm embarrassed myself for having heard them."

He took a moment to think, his smile widening.

"Oh, I simply relish the visual of Mike Newton's reaction if I were to reveal the truth of my constant supervision over him when Bella first arrived in Forks," he chuckled. "I've overheard every vulgar fantasy and every snide insult toward my family that had crossed his mind in those first months. Every once in awhile, I like to recall his internal death threats in my direction once I was victorious over him, if I'm in need of a laugh."

"Do you think you can't read the thoughts of anyone from another dimension?" I asked.

"I assume not," He answered. Examining my expression, he guessed what I was thinking. "Yes, I have considered that Bella is not of this world. It's the only plausible explanation I've been able to come up with thus far, but there are faults. She has history here. Family. Perhaps, I've thought, an ancestor of hers was of another dimension. Could it be that it is genetic…? No, most likely not. But the muddied pool that is her mind has slightly cleared—hardly enough for me to form much of anything worth making a deduction over, but at least there's some sort of noise coming from her direction where there used to be silence."

"If I were to stay here long enough, would my thoughts become a bit clearer?"

"Stephenie was here for quite some time, and all I'd ever heard was silence. If you manage to find a way to convince me to let you spend any substantial amount of time here, who knows?"


	5. Chapter 4

"'Liv," I heard someone whisper. "Olivia, are you awake?"

I rolled over onto my side, burying my face in my pillow and failing to catch the irritated groan that escaped from my lips. When my aggravator persisted, I groggily lifted my head from my pillow to see Eli through the greasy, tangled netting of my hair. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn't slept at all, and his breath reeked of the faint scent of alcohol; I recognized the look on his face before he even said a word.

He was leaving.

"I should've guessed," I frowned, my head falling back into my pillow.

He put his hand on my arm. "I'm sorry to leave you to the dogs so readily, but I really should be getting back. I have some unattended business in New York, but, hey, I'll call more often, I promise. Us siblings gotta stick together, right…?" He noticed my downcast expression.

I took a deep breath.

"You can always visit me in Manhattan, kid, you know that," He smiled tiredly. "God, I don't want you to think that I'm always ditching you…"

"What were you doing last night?"

"Drowning my sorrows," He shook his head. "Dad was pissed and, hell, may the force be with you when he sees you next. But, yeah, I had to get out of the house, so I met up with a few friends from Beacon and went out. Nothing too crazy, I can reassure you—I wasn't in the mood."

I nodded. "No dancers or kegs, right?"

"You know me."

"Yes, I do."

"I'm getting better, really," He exhaled. "Believe me, that formal scared me outta my skin. You won't see me drinking myself blind anymore, not after that. Besides, once you get my age, you kind of want to remember what you did last night rather than let it all blur together, you know? Hayley's always on my back about it anyway. She's making sure that I take it easy."

"I'll have to meet her sometime soon," I told him. "I'd like to know my sister-in-law, if you don't mind."

"We're not technically married…" He paused. "Well, I guess we are, but we just skimped on the ceremony and the commitment part of it."

Almost as if a single word of what he said triggered my memory, I suddenly recalled last night and all of its glory. It was a dream, I was sure. But I wasn't about to readily accept that it was.

I had left the Cullens' an hour after I arrived—Edward wanted time for my scent to dissipate before his family returned home. My time there had had the essence of a dream, considering it now took me a long moment to remember how it had started and what the nature of it was. Never did I think—if I ever received the impossible opportunity to speak to Edward Cullen—I would ever _forget_ what it was we had discussed. If anything, it should've be one of the most cherished conversations I would ever partake in. I should've _recorded_ it, for goodness sake.

As I summoned up what I could remember of the conversation from the prior evening, I just then noticed the erratic spirit of our variable topics. They altered from lighthearted and casual—music I preferred or books I adored—to heavy and highly conditional—the mechanics of my involvement should the dice roll in my favor and I would be able to stay, however briefly, in Forks. Without any formal acknowledgement, we suddenly began speaking as if my permanence in this equation was inevitable, and we both knew that there were formalities to address if that were the case. Edward was convinced that my existence could only remain between us, to spare his family another round of the emotional trauma that gaining and losing a friend in Stephenie had caused them. We had constructed a few rules and regulations, as were necessary: I was allowed a limit of one visit a week and, at the finish of each stay, we would have to organize a proper occasion for my next pop-in, one where Edward's family was out; I was restricted to no more than an hour per visit, as that seemed fitting in order to keep my being a secret; and, the most important rule of all, I was to tell no one, in Edward's world, should I run into someone, or my own.

We would've made a pact in blood, but that seemed hardly appropriate. The intention was the same, though.

We were sworn to secrecy, Edward and I. And, whether the dream proved real or not, I had to at least treat it as if it was.

Eli knelt at my bedside letting me file my thoughts accordingly, though he hadn't a clue what they were about—and I knew that I could not tell him. He must've thought I was still faithful to the topic at hand, which I had, as a matter of fact, completely forgotten.

Only a few seconds had passed, so I didn't want to seem rude for having so quickly checked out of our conversation, seeing that it was the last I would share with my brother for however long.

"Hmm," I said, using my sleep depravity as an excuse for becoming sidetracked.

"Don't worry about me," Eli patted my head. Then he added, "And send Mom and Dad my best."

"They don't know you're leaving?"

"I got home, like, five minutes ago," He admitted. "They're still asleep."

"Oh." I exhaled noisily.

"Whew," Eli scrunched up his nose and waved his hand in front of his face. "Lovely morning breath, you've got there, 'Liv. Make sure you brush your teeth before homeroom."

"_Homeroom_." I moaned. "I forgot I have school."

"Happy Monday," Eli stood, kissed me on the top of my head, and strode to the door. He turned to look back at me and say, "Stay out a trouble, kid," before disappearing out my door and quietly making his way down the steps.

It was an unfortunately gloomy, wet morning that day on the coast. A few active fishermen were preparing to depart from the dock, while most of the sails remained tied down until tomorrow and whatever better weather it entailed; it would most likely storm today, as it periodically did after any particularly long, dry streak. The sun had certainly claimed its stake over the small little town for almost two weeks, so it was no wonder that the weathercast called for near four inches in the coming days.

The hilled streets were crowded with houses and shops in the innermost design of the costal port, chainlinked and cinderblock fences toward the western wooded side of town and weathered picket fences by the oceanfront. Just beyond the small supermarket was the high school on a short crest above the waves, the only public institution in town. There was a private hillside school farther up the coast, but Eli had not been very popular there, so my name on the file was the honest explanation they had given for my rejection. Beacon High School was no dump, though, and Beth was perfectly satisfied when I was accepted with flying colors.

On the southern side of campus was long brick wall that separated the grounds from the rest of the town. Against this wall was the running track, inside of which was a manicured football field, and a baseball field was just beyond it. The school itself was a tall brick structure, three levels in height with windows symmetrically aligned on its face. The parking lot, now glistening with lightly falling rain, was surrounded by a cluster of elderly oak trees that towered above everything else in sight, and provided some cover now that the rainfall began to pick up.

I was relatively early, so the lot was not crowded; only a few cars were parked on the blacktop, the majority of which being the faculty spaces. I did, however, notice Andrew Brier's car a few spots down. He and two other boys were at the hood of his pickup, waiting for the rest of the student body to arrive.

Andrew waved me over once I was out of my dry cabin and shivering in the crisp, misty air. "Olivia!" He called.

I shuffled over to them, creating ripples in the gathering puddles on the asphalt surface as I crossed the lot.

The three all played lacrosse, which was their claim to fame here, and they retained popularity though it was the offseason. I was friends with them by association—one of which I was lab partners with, and the other two I had met through my good friend, Jennifer Mitchell. We had all become quite a tight-knit group over the summer and our friendships had lasted throughout the first semester and into the first months of the New Year.

Andrew Brier was not especially tall—probably my height, I guessed—with golden-brown hair, consistently in disarray, and dark eyes. He filled the role of comedic relief quite eagerly freshman year and had upheld it ever since. Today he wore khaki pants and a formfitting polo, skillfully portraying the typical athletic, east coast teenager that seemed a trend in this place. He had been leaning against the grill of his truck, and moved forward to greet me as I approached.

The tallest of the three boys was Kevin Fulton, a blonde, pale, lanky teenager whose academic and athletic skill surmounted any shred of sociability he could muster. He was introverted, but courteous and thoughtful to those who knew him well—it was undemanding and uncomplicated to be his friend, he was not as pretentious as some of his friends.

And, if Kevin was the least pretentious, the last boy, Jack Brooks, was the living definition of the word. According to Andrew, though, Jack's ostentatious demeanor was simply pretense—he liked May Carroll, whom I had developed a close friendship with over the past few years, and his exaggerated personality was simply a ploy to impress her; as far as I knew, his attempts were futile, but, surprisingly, it was his persistence that flattered her. Jack was similar in stature to Andrew, though a bit wider at the shoulders, and had had a short, auburn crew cut for as long as I'd known him.

"How was dinner with the folks last night?" Andrew asked.

I blinked. Dinner felt like days ago. "Oh…eventful."

"I can imagine," Jack scoffed, draping his arm across the bed of the truck. "Did Eli make a scene?"

"I wish. I'll probably be grounded for a month." I stopped for a moment to consider my momentary luck. "Thank God I hadn't run into my parents on my way out of the house this morning."

"Well, you're really growing up, aren't you? Finally standing up to your folks?" Andrew said, his statement rather out of line considering most of my friends had never met my parents besides a quick 'hello' when they just so happened to cross my path when I had company over.

I did not want to think of my rash actions last night as _rebelling_, since that was more Eli's forte than my own, but the raw emotions were accurate, to say the least. It was the intention that was wrong—I should not have acted that way, in front of my dad's boss, no matter how good the redemption felt. Either way, I would not be savoring the sweet taste of victory much longer, if that were even what I was feeling now; my parents would not let me hear the end of this, at least until I found my place again and did not speak out of turn.

Kevin must have realized that I was in no state of mind—or mood—to truthfully answer Andrew's question, so he thankfully distracted me by asking, "Did you finish the _Doctor Zhivago_ discussion questions for Lit?"

"Oh," Andrew's teasing expression was replaced with a hilarious combination of frustration and fear. "Shoot, I completely forgot about that. Jack, you have your book with you?"

While Jack fumbled through his backpack for his copy, I smiled gratefully at Kevin.

I did not mean to become so easily detached from the conversation from that point on, but I could not help but resurrect my curiosity from that morning, eagerly returning to my thoughts before the rest of our group would arrive.

Although acknowledging Edward Cullen as factual and as concrete as I was seemed a feat within itself, I couldn't help but imagine beyond what little sample of a truly surreal enchantment I had been granted last night (given last night was real); the lean, intelligent boy of one-hundred-and-ten that I had met was just one member of the vast fantasy I was turning over in my head now. I knew there was a set of the stories in the school library, and I considered brushing up on my knowledge with this new mindset during my study period this afternoon—but I could hear a faint warning siren wailing in the back of my head. What if I should not want to be reminded of the events, of the characters? Though it seemed a fantastic chance occurrence, perhaps I did not want to remember the dangers and awes that were now reality…. Perhaps I should not _want_ to accept them as reality….

The last thing I wanted was to psych myself out of this (if it were really true). It was just like me to reject a possibility by uprooting the flaws in any situation—what did it matter if there was danger? What did it matter if there were things in that reality that I had never before dreamed of in my own? Exactly. It did not matter. It _should not_ matter. I should be embracing this as a remarkable, exclusive prospect.

I decided that I would try to return tonight. And I would have to prepare for my return accordingly—I would have to spend my day struggling to remember how to do so.

It was very strange, the technicalities of this phenomenon. It certainly had the fundamental nature of a dream—I had trouble recalling exactly how the lovely vision into this other world began, or the breadth of it. What exactly had we talked about, Edward and I? I knew the regulations he demanded I follow, I remembered those quite well. It was the casual subjects we'd brushed upon that evaded me now. Vaguely, in the back of my mind, I felt as if we had discussed Bella, if at all briefly; but, then, I decided that was impossible, seeing as Edward's family had been deemed off-limits to me—there really was no point in us bringing up what was no more than a figment of my imagination, as far as I was supposed to be concerned.

Of course, I was disappointed that I could not meet them. How could I not be? I would have to find some way to convince Edward to let me talk to them, if only for a few minutes time. To at least see their faces…

That is, if I could just remember how to get there. That was my first and foremost priority at the moment: returning to Forks. Edward must have mentioned, whether intentionally or not, how to return—he must've—if only I could just remember…

"Oh, good!" A high-pitched voice startled me from my reverie. "You've got your discussion questions out! I'll need to compare them to mine…" Jen Mitchell had just gaited over to Andrew's truck, playfully snatching the crumpled loose-leaf paper from the boys' hands and pulling out her notebook to judge the validity of her answers.

I was in too much of a daze to greet her—let alone, send the proper signal to my brain in order to form any compilation of words—so, with one listless wave of my hand, I left my friends in the parking lot and headed for the building as the ten minute warning bell sounded.

By lunch, my thought process still was the disorderly mess it had been that morning, and very little progress had been made, much to my dismay.

I had managed to remember a few insignificant points, though. And they added at least some sense of solidity to my murky memories.

I recalled something along the lines of conversion and, for the shortest blip of a moment, I did consider it to be that of a religious sort. But, then, the context slowly filtered back into play when I thought long and hard about it. It was from a musical standpoint—Edward had told me that Bella had converted him to the same sorts of musicians that I enjoyed. It took me a short moment to remember what had come of that discovery, and I recalled promising to make him something. A CD, I believe it was.

There had also been something else that I was able to resurrect, something that evoked the emotions of the moment rather than the actual moment itself. I recollected a sense of confusion, something he'd said that surprised me—something that I didn't expect. And I knew that, in this world I knew so much about, something _surprising _should have been the first thing I would've been able to call to mind. I knew it had something that differed from the facts I knew, something that was out of place… It had taken me a good ten minutes, but I finally remembered that it was not a _what_ I was longing to remember. It was a _who_. Bella and Edward's hybrid daughter: an impractical hoax as far as the Cullens were concerned, but a considerable element of the story as my world knew it. This insight into my previous evening paved the way for a few other discoveries to be made—I recalled Edward mentioning something of Rosalie's embarrassment, and Emmett's amusement; this led me to remember how it was the Cullens came into possession of the film in the first place; and the recollection of Stephenie's impermanence was a reminder of Edward's hesitation, of his absolute anxiety over what my presence in his world necessitated.

If my inability to properly remember could be illustrated as probing the walls of a black, stuffy room for a light switch or a door, then my few breakthroughs were the equivalent of becoming too languid to continue searching and deciding to dig at the floor with my stiff fingers. I knew I could do better. There had to have been something obvious that I was failing to recall—and, at this point in time, that something was how to return. None of my questions would be answered if I couldn't solve this single riddle. And that was that.

Though I did not realize at first, May Carroll had begun to walk alongside me as I made my way down the hallway to the cafeteria; she, unlike Jen, did not desire conversation as if it equaled in importance to the air we breathed, so we walked together in content silence, letting our thoughts fill whatever social voids we shared.

May was quite beautiful—enviously so, if you considered it long enough, for she was not the obviously beautiful type. She had curly black hair that cascaded in little ringlets down the small of her back, and wide eyes that allowed ample access to her innocent thoughts. As an admirable facet of her personality, it was simply her nature to be compassionate towards everyone, and it astounded her whenever someone acted otherwise. It seemed the only conceivable way to function to her, which was most likely a result of her upbringing with the considerate family that she had. Though she and Kevin were quite similar in terms of benevolence, she had never had much trouble in the sociability department—the only people who disliked her only had a foundation of jealousy to stand on. There truly was nothing else to hold against her.

We both bought small lunches consisting of bottled ice tea and sandwiches before retreating to our usual table in the center of the cafeteria.

The rectangular room was tall and long with pale blue, chipping paint on the walls. The majority of the seats were taken by the time we took our own, filled by the substantial student body that attended here; the room was unintentionally segregated down the middle—underclassmen on the eastern-facing end and upperclassmen on the opposite. As juniors, we were still establishing our stake on the upperclassmen side, so we presided on the outskirts of the section, situated at the divide. The ocean could be seen from the window, foaming white with tumultuous, crashing waves, and the sky had grown much grayer since I was last outside.

May and I took the two available seats between Andrew and a girl named Ella Gregg, whom I did not know that well. She had short, bouncy blonde hair that waved to about her chin and small blue eyes. There was a sharpness to her jaw that angled all of her features, and made her cheekbones protrude out, casting dark shadows around her eyes. She wore a significant amount of a makeup, though it suited her, and a dark cardigan that contrasted her skin color too drastically. She resembled Jack, the way she had a sort of portentous attitude about her, and no one had yet stepped out to inform me of her personal reasoning for such a pretense, which led me to assume there was none.

Jack was in the middle of sharing his weekend with a dark-skinned boy from the lacrosse team who sat beside him, but he discarded the obviously less interesting topic of his own life as soon as May pulled up her chair.

"Hey, May," He greeted promptly, leaning over Ella to talk to her. "How was babysitting on Friday?"

I would have considered this a humble excuse May had provided Jack—as she recently had to resort to doing—but she had told me the same thing, so I knew it was true. Seeing that lying wasn't in her wheelhouse, it had become my job to fabricate most of her stories.

"A challenge," she answered with a smile.

"Hey, May, did you take that history test yet?" Jen asked her from across the table, stabbing her fork into a plastic box of baked ziti.

"So," Andrew leaned toward me, "tell me what happened last night."

I blinked, my thoughts scattering in a daze. Was there a chance that I may have mentioned my encounter with Edward in passing during my second period with Andrew? No, that was quite impossible. I was too introspective today to acknowledge anyone else, so the possibility that I may have voiced my current befuddled emotions was very unlikely.

"Did you throw a fit or what?" He smirked.

"Oh." He was referring to dinner with Mr. Montgomery. "Sort of."

"Don't worry," He shook his head. "I feel your pain. Sometimes I just think my parents don't hear a word I'm saying, and, I don't know, when it's bottled up that long, it doesn't matter who is listening."

"Yeah, I guess."

"You think your parents are mad?" He wondered.

"I'm sure they are," I nodded. "My dad sent me to my room last night, and that was the last I'd seen him. Believe me, I don't look forward to going home tonight."

"You could call and say you're studying at my house," He shrugged. "All of us could get something to eat and hang around town for awhile, if you want to try to get out of it."

I sighed, "No, they wouldn't let me." I paused for a moment, accepting that returning to face my parents was the thing to do in this situation, instead of hiding from them. But, secretly, I knew that the real reason I wanted to return home was to be with my own thoughts, far away from the distractions that I once appreciated. The sooner I was alone the better. "I'm kind of tired anyway."

"Alright, maybe some other time," He smiled.

I took a sip of my drink.

"Sometimes it's just best to close your eyes and not think about it, right?"

And, all of a sudden, my hand returned to the dark wall and found the light.

_You just have to consciously concentrate on it. Close your eyes, imagine it, and you'll be back._

I sat there in stunned silence as someone who had just been delivered some wonderful, incomparable news would, almost too tempted to rise from the lunch table, hurry out to my car, and rush home at this very second. There was little that was keeping in my chair, but, of what little there was, I knew right well that the most important was what my parents' interpretation of my ditching school early would add up to. They would recognize the patterns as that of one they had formerly noticed in my brother—leaving school at will to be with his thoughts had been one of the first steps he'd taken toward purposefully estranging himself. And my parents would make certain that they would not stand obliviously by as a second child created an illusionary world in which to escape (my brother's life was a story in itself, and I, along with my parents, rarely dwelled on it).

So, it was responsibility alone that kept me in place and, though I suddenly remembered Edward had mentioned that my reality would resume in the exact moment in which I abandoned it, I decided to wait until I was alone.

I progressed through the tedious day with difficulty—an unseeing eye to the worried looks I received from my friends, unresponsive to my teacher's questions, incapable to so much as pick up a pen and scribble on an assignment no matter its straightforwardness. Luckily, my friends had no intention of spending time with me once the final bell tolled and I was to my car in a heartbeat, eager to return home.

As I glided to a stop at the light at the bottom of the hill, I brought my hand to my face, considering an unsettling thought. I had been consciously concentrating on only one thing for the entire day—that one place, that one room, that one face was all that mattered to me, was all that I could see as I sleepwalked through my day. I analyzed my buzzwords for a moment—_close your eyes_—and wondered if that made the only difference. I clamped my eyelids shut, imagining the dream that I so avidly wished to return to, but there was nothing but the open intersection and the drizzling raindrops on my windshield and the blaring red light above my head once I opened my eyes again.

I groaned, closing my eyes softer now and pressing my head up against the steering wheel. I heard horns honking behind me, which most likely meant the light had changed to green, but I didn't care; I let them maneuver their way into the shoulder and around me, ignoring them as they shouted on their way past.

The rain intensified, but the sound dwindled to the point where I could not hear it anymore, drowned out in the quiet melody of a song I was unfamiliar with—that was strange. I did not remember turning on my radio when I got in the car; I distinctly recalled leaving it off in order to better think in the silent environment of my cab. But it was definite and certain now, almost as if someone was increasing the volume.

I labeled it as nothing more than supporting evidence of my own insanity.

"Edward," I exhaled, almost as a form of surrender. It was unlikely I would ever see him again.

"Yes?" A silky smooth voice came from just a few feet away from me, matching the timbre of the low music. The voice reached my ears not in a way that I would hear the sound travelling from a passenger in the tight cabin of my car, but, on the contrary, the way a voice would travel across a lofty, cushioned, expansive room.

I brought my head up from the steering wheel—which was no longer a steering wheel at all, but the back of a wooden desk chair that I was lounging in. I looked up to perceive my surroundings, but all my perception of setting was an ability suddenly rendered unachievable.

Across the room, reclining on the large iron cast bed, Edward looked at me from over the top of a book even larger than yesterday's, a charming crooked smile on his face.


	6. Chapter 5

"I thought you would be back the moment I sent you away," He chuckled to himself.

He returned the book he'd been reading to a shelf across the room, moving gracefully with a smile on his face—I wanted to think that my being there had brought him at least a shred of the happiness he expressed now, but he seemed genuinely at ease, as one would feel comfortable in a familiar place in solitude. The stereo by the bed, which had been a dominant component of my surroundings when I had first arrived, filtered more suitably into the backdrop now that I was settled, a beautiful, melodic piano quietly whispering from the speakers.

I had been too stunned for words, at first, incapable of striking any conversation with him; so, he'd sat and patiently waited for my heart rate to return to normal and my thoughts to untangle themselves as he finished his novel in a matter of minutes. As I was still reclaiming the skill of speech, he had explained to me in detail the complexities of the book and its theme—he spoke fluently and beautifully, never pausing a moment to find the right words or reconsider his analysis. He knew precisely what he was talking about as he was talking about it, so I would not have felt apt enough to add anything to his monologue even if I'd tried.

He glanced over his shoulder at me, waiting for my reply.

"Oh, well, I-I…" I struggled to find the proper words, "I was having a little trouble remembering everything."

His eyes softened understandingly as he moved back to the bed. "I'd forgotten. Stephenie suffered from the same set of symptoms—it will take you a few times to adjust, after which you'll be able to transition between realities quite nicely. That's why it is so easy to fail to identify which is the dream and which is not."

I nodded. "Hmm." Looking around the room, I was able to recall the memories of the previous evening much easier now. I could almost remember the entire conversation word for word.

Edward must've noticed my epiphany. "All coming back to you, is it? Alright, now try to remember what you were doing just now, before you arrived here."

"That's easy, I was…" I paused. "I was…I don't—I don't remember."

"Now _your_ reality seems the dream," He smiled. "It will be the same when you return. You'll have forgotten whatever it is we talk about today. Give it time, this phase will pass."

"So…you're allowing me the time, then?"

I waited with bated breath as he considered his reply. "To be decided."

I wished more than anything that he had responded differently, that he had at least offered me the opportunity to prove my dependability. But, no, he wouldn't budge. Not unless I attempted to move him, to convince him how badly I truly wanted to hold on to this reality. His face lightened with curiosity as he analyzed my presumably hilarious expression.

"I'm sorry to have upset you." He patted the bed, gesturing that I come sit beside him.

I sulked to where he had motioned, slumping down on the soft comforter with a heavy exhale. This made him laugh.

"Remarkably like Bella, you are," He mused. "You absolutely fail to recognize a dangerous situation when it arises."

"You may not see things my way," I pouted, folding my arms, "but I see this as a stroke of luck—the most I've had in a very long time."

He blinked, confused.

"This is a dream come true," I sighed. He smiled at my naiveté. "You don't seem to grasp that very well. Happiness is a superficial feeling where I'm from…I don't know one person who I'd say is _truly_ happy. Well, except for my friend, May Carroll, maybe. But she's naturally that way—she doesn't see the bad in life, or in people. Sometimes I wish I could be more like her."

He blinked again, only this time he seemed utterly fascinated. His eyes, milky butterscotch in color, widened and warmed, that same sense of comfort by reason of familiarity still effervescent in his demeanor. I enjoyed the idea that the absolute normality of my life thrilled him; it even perplexed me. His thought processes were a fabulous mystery to me—what it must feel like to be such an experienced, intellectual person surprised?

"What are you thinking?" I wondered.

He grinned even wider. "That's my line."

I sat back on my heels. "Are you asking?"

"Tell me about them," He asked eagerly. "The people in your life, I mean."

"Hmm," I looked up at the ceiling. "I'm not sure that's a very interesting topic..." He prompted me to explain, nonetheless. "Well, I'll start with the most interesting, then, and work downward until you're bored enough for me to stop. My family's no clan of undead, warn you—we haven't many extraordinary stories."

He shrugged, this fact seeming to excite him even more.

"I have an older brother, Eli," I began. "People say he looks like me, but we're nothing alike. He went to this fancy school up in Fairbank Harbor, but got kicked out as a freshman because he skipped school a lot and stole the headmaster's car. My parents never liked him much…and I'm not quite sure why because he's the most fascinating person I know. Everyone in town respected him—the simple people, you know, not the well-to-do—because he was smarter and cleverer than anybody gave him credit for, but he never really liked people, I guess. A couple months before he left, he told me that I was his only real friend…." I looked out the window, imagining the moment as if I were there.

He'd spent most his time at a cove along the beach, where you could see the lighthouses off the shore and the pier down the busier end of town, and that's where he'd felt the safest to be alone with his thoughts—I couldn't help but feel honored when he offered to take me there, whether it was only once or not. We'd been sitting on a driftwood log, watching the sun set after a rainstorm, the high tide washing up the sand to tickle our toes before ebbing back. It had been about a month before he graduated from Beacon. If I had known then that I would hardly see him after that summer, perhaps I would have confirmed my mutual fondness out loud.

"He's a people person now," I continued to Edward, leaning back on the bedpost. "He lives in Manhattan, dropped out of college a couple months in without my parents knowing and married this girl he met at a club down the street from his apartment. He runs a crummy dive bar now, I think, unless he sold that for the rented space on the skyline…but, anyway, live music plays there all the time and he makes the menu and a bunch of college kids hang out there on the weekends, especially when a game is on…. Last I heard he's _really_ happy with what he's got and, if my deduction skills are of any value, I'd say he only started living after he left home. That's why I want to get away from there something awful…." I stopped.

Edward asked, "And your parents?"

"Beth and Fred?" I shook my head. "Not really worth talking about."

"What about your friends?"

"Hmm, well, there's Jen—she's a Jessica Stanley if I ever knew one."

He laughed outright at my analogy.

"And Andrew," I sighed, "well, I don't want to be as mean as to say he's comparable to Mike Newton because I know you don't like him much, but he has his moments. Kevin Fulton…he's the nicest boy I know, kind of like May. But I wouldn't call him happy—just content, I guess, if that. Jack Brooks has got the self-confidence of a Tyler Crowley, and Ella is nothing short of a Lauren; those two could be role-players if they really wanted to, they play the parts so well. All the boys play lacrosse, which is a big deal on the east coast. You haven't got a Y chromosome in your body if you don't play lacrosse."

"I would have thought football is of greater standing."

"That's the Midwest," I exhaled. "It's not about being big and strong, it's about being lean and fast."

Edward smirked. "Sounds like Emmett would be thoroughly disappointed."

"You know, baseball's a close second," I told him. "Eli's a _huge_ Mets fan."

"Not a Yankees enthusiast, hmm?" Edward inquired.

"Oh, that's sacrilege in his mind," I laughed. "I'm not sure if my brother even owns anything the color navy, he's so devoted."

Edward glanced down at his navy V-neck and made a face.

I giggled—God, it felt so natural to giggle here, whereas back home it felt almost like I laugh someone else's laugh, live in a shell where my brain is the only genuine piece of me—and a thought suddenly sparked in my head. "You think I'd get to watch you play ball? Oh, please, let me, I'd really love it."

He ran his hand through his hair. "I'm not sure how well I'd be able to play ball by myself. Though I'm sure I could pull it off. Pitch, catch and bat all at once…I'd be fast enough, at least."

I took a deep breath. "Why do you have to be so stubborn…?"

"Oh, you're right, I could play with my family," He nodded, feigning momentary contemplation. "Ah, yes, I could ask them if setting up a camera on a tripod would be too intrusive, could say I'm making a documentary for my own sake. Then I could show it to you next visit…"

"Edward, please," I picked up a pillow that was at the end of the bed and tossed at him. He caught it in his left hand and promptly wound up to throw it back, tilting his wrist at a fraction of an angle so that it would just fly past my head when he realized that, even with something so soft, the blow would surely knock me off the bed. Instead, a side table by the sofa took the hit, a rusted hourglass tipping off the edge before Edward was all of a sudden beside it to push it back into place with his fingertip.

He exhaled in the cumbersome silence, keeping his finger on the metal artifact as if it helped his balance.

"I am not going to have this argument with you," He shut his eyes.

I looked down at my hands.

"And, already, I shouldn't be allowing you this much!" He gestured to the empty air between us. "I cannot do this to myself, to my family—not again. Perhaps I'd be more lenient if you came first…no, probably not even then. There is nothing more keeping you here than my own curiosity, or my desire to…I'm not even sure. I cannot talk to Alice, or Emmett, or even Bella like I can talk to you. Presumably it's the distance between us—a world away—that makes me…feel safe."

"As if anything is a danger to _you_."

"You are," He nodded, looking out the window. "And Bella…goodness, I fear for my sanity around her."

My eyebrows furrowed. "Why?"

"She perplexes me still…. I cannot believe that not even the bond of matrimony, a sacred act, makes me feel any closer to the mystery that is her processes—what she must think at the little things. I desire to know my wife…to the _fullest_ extent…but in some ways the mystery is a good thing. It comforts me on one point, at least."

I moved away from the bed to stand beside him.

He examined my inquisitive look for a long while. "She hasn't the ability to read my mind, but she knows me better than I know myself. So, if whatever she sees in this soul is of any worth to her, I can only hope that I will truly have eternity to make sense of her."

I was warmed by the intensity of his love, and it brought me some unassailable hope. _There is such a thing_, I thought to myself. _It does exist. _What was this 'thing', I can't help but wonder? What was 'it'? Before I was able to ponder much further, Edward was out with the answer.

"Love, of any sort, is as much in the eye of the beholder as is beauty."

I folded my arms across my chest. "Well, there's plenty worthy of love in you."

He chuckled at the thought, most likely compiling what he considered to be his cache of sins.

I wanted the thought gone from his head as if I was the one that planted it there. "And why am I dangerous to you?"

His expression grew vacant as he stared away at some faraway point in the woods. "The closer you become to me, the farther away you become from your own world. I can't have what happened with Stephenie happen again, Olivia, I—" He stopped.

I followed his gaze, which was now locked on the bedroom door.

In one quick movement, he grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me in the direction of the adjacent bathroom. "Carlisle's home," he said in a rushed whisper. "He must've alternated shifts this week. Oh, how am I so thick…"

"Edward…"

"Shh," He spun me around on my heels. "My father has some banquet tomorrow and he's requested that we all go. I'll return home early and see if you can come then."

"How will I know what time to…?"

"He's in the garage," Edward exhaled, indefinably anxious, but he put a smile on his face as he said, "Go, I'll see you, then."

And, with that, all traces of the music was gone from my head and replaced with the sound of pounding rain and blaring car horns. I lifted my head from the steering wheel with a start and, just after noticing a blurred figure at my window, I realized my foot was on the gas. The car jolted forward with a deafening screeching sound—or maybe I was just disoriented—and I slammed on the breaks.

The person who'd been at my window disregarded courtesy now that he figured something was seriously wrong, thrusting open my door.

"I thought you'd fallen asleep! You alright!"

I looked up at the man in confusion, as if I had never seen a real human being before. I recognized him as Thomas Redmond, the local mechanic—he was almost unmistakable with his dark, thick mustache and rough, pudgy hands that were now trying to pull me out of the car into the fresh air and the rain. A few people had gathered behind him at this point, curiously peeking over his wide shoulders to get a look at me.

Oh, great. I'd started a scene.

"I'm fine," I slipped out of his grasp, trying to reach around him to close my door, but he wouldn't have it.

"I'll call your father," He nodded, as if confirming the action to himself, and stepped back to retrieve his phone from his pocket. Just enough space so that my door could clear him. I pulled the door shut and sped through the light as it shifted to the subsequent red cycle.

Never had I been so eager to return to the house that had previously been my hell. Never had I so eagerly rejoiced the excitement of my life, which seemed new in light of my opened eyes—for once, I was so happy, it frightened me. Which was most likely why the total of three speed cameras in the entire city acquired my picture in the ten minute drive home.


End file.
